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Fox 022: The Wounded Fox

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[AN: This is the twenty-second in the Fox Tale series.  Please read them in order.]
[Creative property of Lady Quindecim]

Part Twenty Two: The Wounded Fox


     The foot trail through the trees was nothing like it seemed before, or it knew where I was heading on the other side and welcomed me with its enveloping fog.  My fingertips numbly touched each tree in turn as they passed me, bringing the cemetery stones closer and closer to me.
     Mindlessly, I walked among the stone markers marked with the names of those who no longer hurt, no longer suffered, no longer felt shame.  Unless there was a Hell.  If so, I knew it was waiting for me with all those things.  Especially the shame.  All the Uncle Tom's will be there, in their own little heaven, pounding into me behind locked doors, telling me they have me, telling me to shut my mouth, shutting it for me.  And everyone will watch and point and there will be horror and disgust on their faces as they point at me for eternity.  All the while, I will see my father; the look on his face when he realised what was wrong with me, why I was dirty and bleeding, who had done it.  And I will see him chained and bared away from me.  And he will forever suffer for me.  And I will forever be separated from him.  That is the place that awaits me. but I am there now, I thought.  I am walking that place now with the doors and the alarms and my father, so far away, and it was all that way in my head - my empty, soulless head driving a heart that already died.  A heart too buried by shame and loathing to do anything but pointlessly beat on, too ashamed to even just stop.
     I may have been searching, but there was no way of knowing.  I may have been searching for myself, or that part of me that was already gone, hoping to catch up with it.  What I found was something very much... else.
     Fox was kneeling naked in the cold in front of a tombstone, small and modest among the monolithic obelisks.  Her back was mostly to me as she looked into a mirror, but not at her face.  If I was guessing, she was looking at her bared chest, so pale and thin.  I want to see what she was doing, just curious.  It was odd.  I could see my breath in the cold morning air and she was naked.  I stepped around to see what she was seeing.  That was when her cold, vacant eyes caught mine through the looking glass.
     She dropped something from her right hand and the mirror from her left and grabbed the thing she was kneeling on.  I ran to her with un-comprehended, reckless determination driven by something - I didn't know what - I saw in the mirror.  She was pulling her dark grey hooded sweatshirt over herself when I got there and grabbed hold of her arms.  She shook her head and tried to pull away from me - to push me away - but fell backwards.  Without wanting to, without trying to, I was on top of her, pushing her back against the tombstone.  I had to see.  I pulled up her sweatshirt in one hand, pinning her by her shoulder, and saw what my eyes could not believe.  Three letters, seeping blood:
               M - O - M
     I ran my finger across through the red running below the fresh cuts and held it up to my eyes to force them to explain - to believe.  Still lost, I wanted answers.  I turned my finger to her, showing her in an unspoken demand for explanation.  I saw fear in her eyes and hated them.  I hated her bright and beautiful and frightened eyes.  I hated them for making me discard all my concerns and thoughts of my own pain that I have carried for years.  I smeared my finger across her cheek in defiance of her fear.
     She was confused then, brow dipping, eyes softening, and raised her finger to wipe across my cheek and brought it up to my eyes, to make me face my tears.  I had not known.  I thought I was out of them.  I thought I had run out of caring about anything.  She smeared her finger across my cheek, mirror to my statement.
     Now more questions.   I shook my head, but still held her.  She turned her head, trying to look at the stone behind her.  Obediently I followed:  Echo Bradley
     I read the dates.  Echo was only sixteen when she died.  She died just about a couple months before I was born.  It was coming together, all spelled out in front of me, but I refused to believe.  Echo Bradley - Foxtrot Bradley.
     "When..." My voice cracked, nothing more than a whisper, "What's your birthday?"  I feared I knew the answer.
     She looked again at the stone then sank defeated against my hold on her.  
               M - O - M
     I opened some distance between us to get a better look.  There were scars all over her body; on her chest, tummy, legs - on her everywhere.  She pulled her sweatshirt off, naked once more, and held her arms out for me to see everything.  I traced some of the oldest lines on her arm and down her sides.  I put my hands on her bony hips and read the faint white letters across the space in between.  There were faded poems etched on her tummy.  On one arm I saw the cut that was covered the day I saw her in the school clinic.  It had not been stitched, but glued to help it close and my hand released her and went to my head and the mark the door left.
     I stood and took a couple steps back and turned my face down, "I'm... sorry."
     Fox stood and got dressed, "Okay, but what are you doing out here?"
     Searching? Hiding? Running away?  It all seemed so pointless now.  Her over-sized sweatshirt covered down to mid thigh, then button-fly jeans and trainers she could just step into - she was dressed in no time.  All I could do was shrug when I tried to face her again.  I took half a step closer.  "So, what happens when your dad sees that?"
     Her answer was a cold, hard stare that told me I said something wrong.
     "I..."  I was not even sure just what I was thinking, all my questions just bottleneck-ed between my head and my voice.
     "You, what?"  There was a touch of hurt or defiance in her voice.  At least she was talking.  "You hate them?"
     "Yes- no, I mean, well, no, I don't hate them.  They are... you.  You are reaching.  Searching."
     She whispered softly - it could have been a breeze, "Go on."
     I looked back at the tombstone.  "I don't," I hesitated. Wrong word.  "I won't know what happened unless you tell me, Fox."
     She stepped closer, smoothly, like a dancer, growing the distance between us smaller.  "And I won't know unless you tell me; What are you doing out here, Nich-chole."  
     There was an edge to the way she said me name, hard and biting.  I asked, "You don't like me, or just my name."
     "I am curious about you, Drummer Girl," she answered.  We seemed to be testing each other.
     "'Dee-Gee' you called me."
     She nodded.
     "The name, then.  DG works."  We stared at each other, another step closer, studying with cautious eyes.
     "I can't knock you to the ground and search your skin.  You are going to have to tell me."
     "I only just told my mom last night.  I came here to get away from it."
     "'It'" she confirmed, "'It' is that thing that happened?  The event in your past that haunts you in your nightmares?"
     I nodded.
     "That thing you said you would tell me some day - you only just told your mother?"
     "And you have been trying to talk to your mother for so long, through your skin."
     Fox's eyes widened, teared, then shut hard, spilling over and down her smudged cheeks.


[You have been reading the twenty-second installment of the Fox Tale Series by Lady Quindecim.]
[If you received this text from a source other than DeviantArt, please let the author know via e-mail to lady.quindecim@gmail.com]
[I hope you have enjoyed this installment]
If this is the first one you are reading, by all means please stop and read the first one [link] first, then proceed in order, if you would be so kind.

And if you like it/them, let me know. If you do not, I would still like to know. If you are completely indifferent and do not feel it is worth your time to comment, that's okay, you can let me know that as well.


Part One: Fox at First Sight → [link]
Part Two: Foxy Lady → [link]
Part Three: Still a Fox → [link]
Part Four: Fellowship of the Fox → [link]
Part Five: Fox Free Period → [link]
Part Six: Fox, but not Forgotten → [link]
Part Seven: Fox Report → [link]
Part Eight: Fox in socks → [link]
Part Nine: Lingering Fox → [link]
Part Ten: Bargain with a Fox → [link]
Part Eleven: Speechless Fox → [link]
Part Twelve: Fox Filled Dreams → [link]
Part Thirteen: In a Box, With a Fox → [link]
Part Fourteen: Fox and Stone → [link]
Part Fifteen: Chef Fox & On the Spot → [link]
Part Sixteen: Fox Proud → [link]
Part Seventeen: Fox is Watching → [link]
Part Eighteen: Foxless Day? → [link]
Part Nineteen: Cornered Without a Fox → [link]
Part Twenty: A Fighting Fox → [link]
Part Twenty One: What Fox Can Never Know → [link]
Part Twenty Two: The Wounded Fox → You are Here ←
Part Twenty Three: The True Fox → [link]

If, for whatever reason, you want to use any of this/these, please check with me first.

As always, comments and feedback are welcome.
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Macadamiannutjob's avatar
As you know I'm a sucker for emotional writing and this is beautiful :)